He stands as I approach, all seven feet of apex predator risen to acknowledge what chose him. When I reach his feet, he extends one clawed hand.
“Stand.” His tail lashes once behind him, betraying his control isn't as perfect as it appears.
I take his hand, let him pull me vertical. My legs barely hold but his grip steadies me. His other upper hand touches my face, claws gentle against skin that's been abraded raw by bark and need.
“Come.” He turns, lower hands maintaining contact with my waist, guiding me deeper into his territory. “Something to show you.”
We move through the purple moss toward a natural formation in the massive tree roots. An entrance, partially hidden by hanging vines that glow faintly with bioluminescence. He pushes them aside, revealing a den carved into the living wood.
Inside is not what I expected.
Soft materials cover the floor. Not just moss but actual fabric, probably traded for or taken from previous hunts. Clean water in multiple containers. Fresh fruit arranged carefully. Dried meat hanging from wooden hooks. He's created not just shelter but a home. A place meant for more than one.
“Seven days preparing,” he says, moving behind me, all four hands now touching. Upper hands on my shoulders, lower hands on my hips. His cocks press against my back, hot even through their protective scales. “Knowing female would come. Would choose.”
My pussy clenches at the evidence of his certainty. At the domesticity of preparation. This isn't just about breeding. He's made a space for keeping.
“The bed,” I manage to say, voice cracking from dehydration and arousal. My eyes fix on the nest of soft materials, large enough for two, arranged with deliberate care.
“For claiming properly.” His upper hands slide down my arms while his lower hands move to my stomach. “Not against tree like animal. Here. Where female can be comfortable while body adjusts to mine.”
The words make fresh wetness flood from me. The promise of comfort during what my body craves. His tail wraps around my thigh, the tip tracing patterns on oversensitive skin.
“But first, checking.” He turns me to face him, amber eyes scanning my body with focus that's part predator, part caretaker. “Female has wounds.”
His claws trace the scratches on my breasts where bark scraped them raw. The touch is gentle but my hypersensitive skin interprets it as lightning. My nipples harden further, impossible as that seems. He notices, makes that grinding sound that means approval.
“Sensitive,” he observes, one claw circling my right nipple without touching it directly. “Fungi worked well.”
“You knew I'd use it?” My hips rock forward involuntarily, seeking contact with his cocks that remain just out of reach.
“Hoped. Female thinks like hunter. Uses tools.” His lower hands grip my waist, holding me still when I try to press closer. “But now consequences.”
He leans down, that impossible tongue emerging. The forked tip traces the scratch above my left breast. The sensation makes me cry out, part pain from the wound, part pleasure from nerve endings that interpret everything as arousal now. His saliva has a numbing quality, soothing the abraded skin while making it tingle.
“Your tongue,” I gasp as he moves to the next scratch. “It's...”
“Healing properties in saliva.” He speaks against my skin, breath hot. “Many properties. Female will learn them all.”
The promise makes my pussy clench hard enough that fluid actually drips onto the soft floor of his den. He inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. His cocks both pulse, the breeding one extending another inch from its sheath.
“Female ready beyond ready.” His tongue traces lower, between my breasts, down toward my navel. “Body begging for breeding.”
“Please.” The word escapes without thought. My hands reach for him but he catches my wrists with his upper hands, holding them while his lower hands continue exploring my waist, my hips, the curve where thigh meets pelvis.
“Soon. First, tending.” He drops to his knees, putting his head level with my breasts. “Female must be healthy for what comes.”
His tongue explores every scratch, every abrasion, every mark left by bark and jungle and desperate need. The forked tip can move independently, one side soothing while the other teases. By the time he's finished with my upper body, I'm swaying, only his grip keeping me upright.
“Now these.” His lower hands spread my thighs wider, exposing the scratches on their inner surfaces. “Most sensitive area.”
The first touch of his tongue to my inner thigh makes me scream. Not pain but sensation too intense to processdifferently. He holds me steady while he works, methodical and thorough, treating each wound while my pussy clenches inches from his face, dripping steadily, begging for attention he won't give yet.
“The smell,” he says against my thigh, inhaling deeply. “Perfect compatibility. Body recognizes what it needs.”
His tongue traces higher, to the crease where thigh meets groin. So close to where I need him but not there. The deliberate avoidance makes me sob with frustration. My hips try to shift, to bring my pussy to his mouth, but his grip is absolute.
“Please, I can't—” My voice breaks as another wave of cramping hits. “It hurts. Empty. Need?—”
